I squint my eyes as I look as far as I can. If this was a field of marijuana, what were the chances it was growing wildly? Was this a weed farm? I didn't want to cross paths with a stoned owner. He'd be easy to take on, sure, but it's like stoner code not to take someone else's weed without permission. Especially if they're growing it themself. You just ask, you know? They'd say yes anyway.
I decide, after not seeing any sign of ownership, to walk through the field until I reached the end. I walk for what seems like forever until I'm close to the end. I don't see I sign of anything besides the beginning of trees like 6 or 7 yards ahead.
I hear rustling behind me, the rustling of the leaves of the cannibis. Just before the cold tip of the barrel of a rifle touches the small of my back, I grab it and whirl around, easily disarming the gun holder. A young man looks up with big, bloodshot eyes.
"Is this your farm?" I ask him simply.
"Who are you?"
"Call me Kurosawa," I deign to reply, still holding the man's rifle. "Now, I asked, is this your farm?"
The young man nods. "Sure, my pa's, really, but he ain't been 'round for a bit of time."
"Sure. Just you here, then?"
The young man shrugs. "Dunno. 'M sure there be others 'round, but I ain't never seen them. Pa does the talkin'. Ma ain't 'round. She dead."
"I don't suppose you have a spare room for me to stay in for a while." A nice bed would be excellent, and I obviously have the upper hand from this stoned kid. "And you haven't told me your name."
"You's can call me Dev. An' sure, I thinks we gots an extra bed. Or you can have Pa's while he be gone; he got a big bed, y'see, 'cause he's the Pa."
"I'll use the extra, thank you." I respond, handing him back his rifle. "I bet you're wondering how I got on this island. Truth is, I don't quite know. What I can tell you is that others are with me. There was a plane crash."
"One of them big birds?"
"What?"
The young man says, "Y'all call 'em planes. Me, I call 'em big birds. That where Pa gone, t' investigate. Ain't the first time s'thing like that happen 'round here. Last time I was but a yung'un. Now follow me."
He leads me to a small looking wooden building and takes me inside. The floor is just dirt and it's one room, with a double bed and a single in the far corner and a ratty looking sleeping bag in another corner. There is a hole in the ceiling overhead a piles of ashes in a circle of small rocks -- a fire pit. I assume that's how they cook meals and keep warmth. There's various types of guns scattered haphazardly about the room, and a big chest with a lock on it. There's a stock of firewood near the door.
"Is not much, but I like it," Dev explains. "You can have the sleepin' bag. Pa's bed too, if you'd like."
"I'll think on it." I say.
Dev tosses the rifle onto his cot and sits on the double bed. "Now, I bets you's like a joint."
Megumi Kurosawa -- Day Four
I squint my eyes as I look as far as I can. If this was a field of marijuana, what were the chances it was growing wildly? Was this a weed farm? I didn't want to cross paths with a stoned owner. He'd be easy to take on, sure, but it's like stoner code not to take someone else's weed without permission. Especially if they're growing it themself. You just ask, you know? They'd say yes anyway.
I decide, after not seeing any sign of ownership, to walk through the field until I reached the end. I walk for what seems like forever until I'm close to the end. I don't see I sign of anything besides the beginning of trees like 6 or 7 yards ahead.
I hear rustling behind me, the rustling of the leaves of the cannibis. Just before the cold tip of the barrel of a rifle touches the small of my back, I grab it and whirl around, easily disarming the gun holder. A young man looks up with big, bloodshot eyes.
"Is this your farm?" I ask him simply.
"Who are you?"
"Call me Kurosawa," I deign to reply, still holding the man's rifle. "Now, I asked, is this your farm?"
The young man nods. "Sure, my pa's, really, but he ain't been 'round for a bit of time."
"Sure. Just you here, then?"
The young man shrugs. "Dunno. 'M sure there be others 'round, but I ain't never seen them. Pa does the talkin'. Ma ain't 'round. She dead."
"I don't suppose you have a spare room for me to stay in for a while." A nice bed would be excellent, and I obviously have the upper hand from this stoned kid. "And you haven't told me your name."
"You's can call me Dev. An' sure, I thinks we gots an extra bed. Or you can have Pa's while he be gone; he got a big bed, y'see, 'cause he's the Pa."
"I'll use the extra, thank you." I respond, handing him back his rifle. "I bet you're wondering how I got on this island. Truth is, I don't quite know. What I can tell you is that others are with me. There was a plane crash."
"One of them big birds?"
"What?"
The young man says, "Y'all call 'em planes. Me, I call 'em big birds. That where Pa gone, t' investigate. Ain't the first time s'thing like that happen 'round here. Last time I was but a yung'un. Now follow me."
He leads me to a small looking wooden building and takes me inside. The floor is just dirt and it's one room, with a double bed and a single in the far corner and a ratty looking sleeping bag in another corner. There is a hole in the ceiling overhead a piles of ashes in a circle of small rocks -- a fire pit. I assume that's how they cook meals and keep warmth. There's various types of guns scattered haphazardly about the room, and a big chest with a lock on it. There's a stock of firewood near the door.
"Is not much, but I like it," Dev explains. "You can have the sleepin' bag. Pa's bed too, if you'd like."
"I'll think on it." I say.
Dev tosses the rifle onto his cot and sits on the double bed. "Now, I bets you's like a joint."
I grin. "Don't ask stupid questions."
We light up.